The Republic
by PhoenixAeternum
Summary: AU. H/G. Harry Potter vanishes immediately after the Fall of Voldemort, taking his girlfriend, Ginny Weasley, with him. On the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the Fall, Harry returns to teach at Hogwarts and brings revolution to the Wizarding world.
1. Chapter 1: Out of Exile

**A/N:** _To those interested, I am a founder of another HP FanFiction site. Please visit us at w w w . f i c c i t y . c o m and enjoy a different league of FanFiction._

**THE REPUBLIC**

**Chapter One  
Out of Exile**

Nearly ten years had passed since the Fall of Lord Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard of the age. Wizarding Britain had thrived in the years since. Peace had been restored, political stability ensured; Minister Shacklebolt's reform package had done its job well. The Death Eater trials had sent hundreds of wizards and witches to a wizard-controlled Azkaban.

In the ten years since the Fall of Voldemort, the Saviour, as he was called, had made very few public appearances; his first since the defeat of Lord Voldemort had been an endorsement of Kingsley Shacklebolt for Minister. Since Shacklebolt's ascent to the highest office, however, Harry Potter had been nearly invisible.

He had disappeared with his girlfriend less than a month after the Dark Lord's defeat. Where he and Ginny Weasley had disappeared to was, for a time, the most valuable information in all of Europe. To the average citizen, it was clear why Harry Potter and his girlfriend had disappeared; post-war Britain was a dangerous place to be for someone who had so totally polarized the country.

While the majority viewed Harry Potter as the saviour, the one who had delivered them from evil, there was a sizable minority who had had a great deal to gain from Voldemort's victory. A great number of old and respected families had invested much of their fortunes into Voldemort's side. With his fall, many found themselves in a position weaker than they had been before and during the second war; further, some families, the Malfoys prominent among them, had been vilified in the press as war profiteers and had been investigated and prosecuted for a number of crimes, amongst them treason and the bribery of public officials. While the Malfoys had been acquitted, their name was stained forever.

When, however, he had not been seen in public in three years, Wizarding Britain having now been stable for more than two years, public opinion began to regard Harry Potter with greater fascination still. Privacy was respectable, but Harry Potter having become a recluse was a national obsession.

Within a few months of his reclusion having become front-page fodder, Harry Potter gave an extensive interview to the_ Daily Prophet_, detailing his life in the aftermath of the second war. In it, a number of truths were corroborated, a number of lies invalidated. To the amusement of some and the obsession of many, nearly an entire page of the interview was dedicated to his love life.

For the first time, Wizarding Britain knew for certain that he had not married; that he was still living with girlfriend Ginny Weasley; that he would not seek to challenge Kingsley Shacklebolt in the next ministerial election; that he spends every Christmas with his girlfriend's family; and, most importantly to an unfortunate plurality, despite his marital status, he was most assuredly _not_ single.

It was later reported by the _Prophet_ that St Mungo's Hospital had seen a 300 rise in the average number of young witches admitted to its Extreme Emotional Disturbance ward on the weekend of the interview's publishing. The_ Prophet_ also mentioned that a petition was circulating among the staff to rename the Extreme Emotional Disturbance ward after the saviour.

For the next three years, Harry Potter was silent. Occasionally, a Potter piece would find its way into the _Daily Prophet_, but such articles were restricted to the occasional quote from one of the Weasleys or a prominent person's call for his return to public life. It was not until the controversial appointment of Draco Malfoy to the position of Hogwarts teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts that Harry appeared in public for the first time since his endorsement of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

At a press conference held in Hogsmeade, Harry addressed a crowd of two thousand in support of Malfoy's appointment. The quote that the _Daily Prophet_ ran from the press conference was an excerpt of Harry's support speech.

"Draco Malfoy was cleared of treason by the full Wizengamot, was a valuable asset in the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters, and it is in large part because of his aid that so many murderers no longer walk our streets. Draco Malfoy has renounced his support of You-Know-Who; to the Dark Arts he lost his two closest childhood friends, and it is this intimate knowledge of its evils which makes him an ideal choice for Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

The next day was chaos. Nearly half the _Prophet_ was about Harry and Malfoy's relationship in school; everyone knew of the mutual hatred that existed in their school days. Quote after quote was given to the _Prophet_ by people who remembered them from school, all of them in wonder as to what could have brought Harry Potter out of reclusion to endorse his once bitter enemy, a Death Eater no less.

Nonetheless, in large part because of Harry's support, the Hogwarts board of governors confirmed Malfoy for the Defence position. Although many members of the board, comprised mostly of members of the oldest pure-blood families, were friendly to Draco Malfoy, if not his father, Harry's support provided them the political cover they needed to confirm one of their own without facing an immense political backlash; without the endorsement, confirming a known Death Eater would have been nearly unthinkable.

Why, exactly, Harry came out in support of Draco Malfoy was something that was known only to Harry, Ginny, the chair of the Hogwarts board of governors, and Draco Malfoy himself. Some believed him to have had a change of heart about his old enemy; others, in the more cynical, if hopeful, corners of Britain, saw this as the prelude to Harry's presumed run for the office of Minister for Magic. They saw a man embrace an enemy for political gain; by ensuring the ascent of an old pure-blood to an important position within Hogwarts, Harry had, the cynics thought, made a peace offering to the old and powerful families he had long distanced, and with their support, he would be able to secure the job of Minister. The media ran with this theory, and before long the public was convinced of it.

For the first time in nearly two decades, the political team at the _Daily Prophet_ had an actual job to do. Since Fudge's ministry came to power, there had been little need for speculation on who the next Minister would be, little need for debate on the matter; since the rise of Cornelius Fudge, there had always been a clear frontrunner. Following Fudge's resignation, Scrimgeour had very quickly gained popularity with his credentials as head of Aurors; Thicknesse, who had provided a strong face to the nation, had avoided a proper election on the grounds of national emergency; Shacklebolt, as soon as Harry had announced his endorsement of him, had risen to frontrunner and then Minister presumptive with the help of his resistance credentials. And so, for the first time in decades, a competitive election looked to be fought.

Six years in to his ministry, it appeared to the all that the wildly popular Minister Shacklebolt was about to face a challenge from the only one with a prayer: their saviour.

Weeks of speculation followed.

In large part due to his massive popularity and great successes in the political field, Shacklebolt retained a great many of his supporters. Although the Harry Potter was the Wizarding world's darling candidate, Shacklebolt had done much to reverse the fortunes of Britain. He had lifted up a collapsing economy, had instituted and defended national neutrality, had brought murderers to justice, had been both architect and mouthpiece of his ministry's massively popular and successful political and social reforms, and seemed to the public to have rebuilt a crumbling nation with his bare hands.

Harry Potter's political inexperience and naivety, argued Shacklebolt supporters, rendered his a weak, even insignificant candidacy. For the first time since the very infancy of Shacklebolt's initial bid for Minister, however, Shacklebolt's supporters were on the offensive, as if _they_ were the underdog. The Ministry gave no official statement, and no interview with Shacklebolt had so much as mentioned Harry Potter.

After six weeks of little but speculation, Harry Potter sat down with the _Prophet_ for another interview, his last for years, in which he denied the claims that he would be challenging Kingsley Shacklebolt for the position of Minister. He reiterated his support for Kingsley Shacklebolt, stressing the good he had done the country and pointing out that he himself had _no_ political ambitions, and that his support of Draco Malfoy was because he honestly believed him to be the best man for the job.

When the story ran, it was met with general disappointment. The idea of a new Minister, a new ministry, was an exciting idea to a lot of people. The lack of a serious opposition candidate was a blessing and a curse for Kingsley Shacklebolt; Harry not entering the race essentially cemented his own retention of power in the next election. At the same time, however, a lot of unsavoury things had been said of him by those who had supported Potter for Minister; for the first time in his career, a significant opposition movement had been directed at his ministry. For the first time in his career, he was politically vulnerable.

Four more years passed.

On the twenty-second of April, ten days before the tenth anniversary of the Fall of Voldemort, it was announced by Kingsley Shacklebolt in a full press conference that Harry Potter would return to Hogwarts for the first time in one decade to address his nation.

The announcement set the country afire. This was it, every Potter For Minister supporter knew in his bones. With the general election to be held the next year, this was Harry Potter's declaration of his intent to ascend to Minister for Magic. This was it.

Article after article was printed in the _Daily Prophet_.

_Harry Potter Returns to Hogwarts_

_Harry Potter to Seek Highest Office?_

_Shacklebolt: I Will Seek Third Term_

_Harry Potter: A Much-Needed Fresh Face_

_Poll: Potter Tops For-Minister Wish-List_

_Supreme Mugwump: We Would Welcome a Potter Ministry_

On Wednesday the second of May, Harry Potter awoke in his bed, his girlfriend of ten years' head resting on his bare shoulder. Today marked a decade to the day since the second war had ended, since the Fall. Today he was to address a crowd of thousands on the grounds of Hogwarts, a place to which he had not returned since events now ten years gone.

Harry turned his head toward their nightstand, noting the red digits of the clock's face. It was a little before six in the morning. He and Ginny had to be at Hogwarts in two hours. Resigning himself to wakefulness, he shook his bedfellow lightly, smiling as she gave a resistant incoherence.

"Come on, Ginny," he murmured. "It's back to the real world for us."

She made another incoherent sound. "What time is it?"

"Five minutes to six."

"Can't you make the speech _next_ year?"

"You know, I could. What do you think, we stay here for another eleven months, get up again sometime around April?"

She kissed him sleepily. "What would we do in bed for eleven months?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said silkily, tracing a finger up her stomach.

She giggled a moment. "No sense in doing that now; _tension_ makes for a better speech."

"Mmm." He kissed her lightly, then, inhaling, he untangled himself from her. "You know we've spent a _decade_ doing nothing but..."

"Isn't it fantastic?"

He kissed her again; sitting up now, he put his feet to the hardwood floor and lifted himself up. With yawn, he stepped over discarded articles of clothing on his way to the bathroom. He stepped in, then looked back, wearing the devil's grin.

"Aren't you coming?"

An hour later, Harry and Ginny exited their bathroom with eyes semiglazed. Determined to be fashionably late, they took their time in getting dressed. Ginny had decided for the both of them that they would wear black dress robes. Although not every word to be said in Harry's address was sombre, the mood was to be one overwhelmingly of hope-tinged sorrow. With a third of the Wizarding population killed, injured, or displaced, much had been taken away from them all.

"I still think we should cut the middle bit," Harry said donning socks.

"That one line is enough to keep it," protested Ginny for the twelfth time in a week. "Besides, you remember what Hermione said: You need a bridge. If you cut the middle without replacing it with something else, the mood-shift will be too quick."

"It just feels like filler."

"It _is_ filler, love," Ginny smiled, "but you _cannot_ go from speaking about the death and displacement of thousands to announcing your return without _some_ sort of transition." She looked at him with pity. "Hermione's been over this with you already. It's an impossible pivot."

"I know, I know." He laced his polished black shoes. "Just nerves, I suppose."

Although it was his speech, Hermione, probably the only witch in the country not involved in politics who had studied rhetoric and oratory, had done a large bit of editing. By her suggestions, what had been a ten-minute speech on reform and reconstruction had become his grand return to public life. _Shock and awe_, she had called it with a curled nose.

Most of her suggestions on the actual writing were relatively minor; he sent her a draft of the speech nearly a year ago, when he had first completed it, or at least thought he had completed it, just to show off a bit. She sent it back to him covered in scarlet ink, nearly every line containing a little note or strange symbol; she'd sent along a _key_ with which to interpret her markings. Most of her suggestions included switching around related words or phrases (occasionally with a note about a mysterious concept called _assonance_), the deletion of conjugations (with a small 'sp.' next to it; the key she sent along told him that this meant it was to speed up the speech; he was quite offended at first), or small changes in words if not meaning (_alliteration, alliteration, alliteration_, she'd written in the key corresponding to the note 'all.').

He was thankful to her; what once was a small speech he'd intended to give as one of many speakers had grown to the size of a keynote address. He was thankful to her, that is, until she decided that he needed to practise it aloud.

To her.

And Ginny.

And Ron.

Twice a week.

Every week.

For nine months.

He and Ginny half-suspected that this was just a petty trick to get to spend time with the self-exiled couple, but Harry had acquiesced to Hermione's ridiculous demand on the basis that practice makes perfect, even grudgingly.

The first run-through had been by far the worst. Ron and Hermione sat with Ginny on their couch, Harry standing before them holding a note-covered draft, stuttering and stumbling too often to be effective; Ron had ended up laughing at a part that spoke of Cedric Diggory's death, because Harry had said "Dedric Ciggory." It had been _years_ since he'd been so glad to see Ron smacked aside the head.

On the first reading, the speech had taken twelve minutes.

Hermione then spent triple that time explaining to him what she meant when she said he should speed up the speech, appearing to contradict herself by telling him to slow down, that half the time, she couldn't even tell what he was saying, and she'd memorized it already. That was very helpful. Harry himself had not memorized it. He thanked her for his inferiority complex and went through it again.

Reading at what to him was a funeral's pace, the second read-through clocked in a little over seventeen minutes. On the third run-through, he was up to eighteen and a half minutes, but Hermione told him the speech needed to be around twenty-seven minutes. And so, to be a prat, on the fourth run-through, he stopped reading and sat down for five minutes after the third paragraph, then resumed again, clocking in still three minutes under. The evening ended in disgrace.

It took two weeks and twenty-six readings for him to get the pacing right. And then Hermione set on him a truly cruel task: He was to read every word of the speech in reverse order every night before bed. Feeling like he was in Hogwarts again, Harry rebelled. And then Hermione found out.

There had been tears – _actual tears_ – shed. Hermione had taken it as no less than a personal insult that Harry had not followed her instructions exactly, had ignored her task completely. He found out only later that she and Ron had gotten into a fight earlier that day, that she was transferring her frustration from her husband to her reclusive schoolfriend. He spent the rest of the night jumping through every hoop Hermione could throw at him.

He still didn't think it was necessary that he sing the speech in the shower. He thought it less necessary still that he sing it to the tune of _Pop Goes the Weasel_.

After a few months of practicing the speech to his girlfriend and her brother and sister-in-law, Hermione decided that Harry needed to practice in a more realistic fashion. To this end, a podium was conjured and Harry was made to cast the Amplification Charm on himself. Hermione then dictated that he ought to try whispering and murmuring portions of the speech, that he should introduce more conjunctions to slow down the language at most sombre moments, then eradicate them at moments of hope or energy. She dictated he ought to make gestures, make use of his hands, his arms, his face.

Before long, Harry was feeling like little more than Hermione's pet project. But now, as he stood dressing to deliver the speech he had been working on in some fashion for a year, he was thankful. Gone from him was the stuttering and stumbling, replaced with confidence and vehemence. Hermione had crafted the speech along with him to enchant, to confound, to shock, to inspire, and each of these things, with the proper delivery, the proper tone, it would accomplish.

He just dreaded what the _Prophet_ would make of it.

**A/N:** _Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2: Ten Years Gone

**A/N:** _This is not a new chapter if you read the first chapter before August 8th, 2008; this chapter is the second half of what was, before the eighth, the first chapter. I split them because I didn't like the precedent it set. Proceed to the next chapter for new material. Sorry for the potential confusion, and happy reading. And t__o those interested, I am a founder of another HP FanFiction site. Please visit us at w w w . f i c c i t y . c o m and enjoy a different league of FanFiction._

**THE REPUBLIC**

**Chapter Two  
Ten Years Gone  
**

Fully dressed, a stack of speech-bearing note cards in his pockets, Harry and Ginny kissed once and, with a single pop, Disapparated to Hogwarts.

For the event, Apparation restrictions had been relaxed to the point of nonexistence on the grounds, where the speech was to be held. The castle itself, because students still inhabited it, was still resolutely out of bounds for all Apparation.

A few estimates had been given to Harry on who and how many would be attending the tenth anniversary of the Fall. The day was a national holiday in Britain; all businesses were closed for the day, Hogwarts was not in session, and all nonessentials had the day off at the Ministry. Portkeys had been set up around the country for witches and wizards who wished to journey to Hogwarts for the ceremony. Although the population of Wizarding Britain had skyrocketed since the Fall, figures from the Ministry of Magic put attendance estimates at around ten thousand, which included foreign dignitaries from virtually every magical government.

When Harry and Ginny arrived, however, it became very clear that the estimate of ten thousand was nowhere close. It was a little after eight in the morning, but there had to be nearly thirty thousand people in attendance. And the ceremonies were not to begin for another few hours. A decade ago, when what happened next occurred, Harry would have Disapparated on the spot and never looked back.

Harry and Ginny had Apparated right before the gates of Hogwarts. Standing at those gates, dressed in black robes and with his hair slicked, was a thin-looking Neville Longbottom. It took a moment for his scanning eyes to find he keynote speaker, but when he did, a grin overcame his face.

"Harry! Ginny!" shouted their old Hogwarts comrade. Harry and Ginny smiling politely, not recognizing him in his matured and thinner guise, as he rushed over and threw his arms around them both. "It's me!" he said with glee. "Neville!"

It was then that Harry's polite smile became a fond grin. "Neville, you look fantastic! How've you been?"

Harry did not get to hear the answer. When their names had been shouted, a dozen faces turned to see if it was _the_ Harry whose name had been called. A third of those people decided it was. One by one, as word spread through the enormous crowd, a great roar grew, a crescendo of hysterics overcame the crowd. The clamour of thirty thousand voices rejoicing shook the earth.

Smiling at the absurdity, Harry shouted to Neville unheard that he should find him later and they'd have a talk. He then silently cast the voice amplification charm on himself, the volume rising and rising, and then, with a thundering voice, he muttered "Thank you."

The crowd silenced.

"If you all would be very kind," he continued, "Ms. Weasley and I must be getting to the castle."

He smiled. "But before we do, would you all do that roar thing just one more time?"

Shouts and cheers and screams and yells overwhelmed the grounds. Amused, but suddenly concerned for the welfare of the castle, Harry spoke again. "Thank you. Now, we must speak with the Headmistress, but we'll be back in a bit. Try not to stampede."

He undid the charm, joined hands with Ginny, who gave him a whack on the shoulder for nearly shattering the castle's windows, and the two walked up to the great doors, a path of people clearing their way with every step. It was an awkward walk. For the first time in a decade, he had to deal with more than a few people staring at a time. A decade ago, he would be running away. But now, fame filled him with a sort of nostalgia. He had lived a completely mundane life for the last ten years; his girlfriend certainly didn't regard him as some sort of rockstar.

He had intentionally left celebrity a decade ago. Initially, it had been to relax after a year in hiding, to spend time with his girlfriend, who never did finish her Hogwarts education. Although the Weasleys had objected, although Hermione had insisted that they _all_ go back to Hogwarts, although Mrs Weasley was _still_ bitter, Ginny had gotten essentially the same education she would have. Harry had taken it on himself to be lover, friend, parent, and teacher all rolled into one for Ginny, as was she for him.

There came a point, however, after three months in their secret home, that he might have returned to the world. He had recovered physically, mentally, emotionally from the events of the last year; Ginny would have been allowed to finish her education at Hogwarts. But a late night by the fire convinced him and Ginny it would be best to remain where they were.

For one, to return was dangerous. In the immediate aftermath of the second war, a lot of people had lost their fortunes and pride with Voldemort's Fall. A sort of vacuum had created itself; every minor Death Eater and aspiring dark wizard was suddenly in as viable a position as any other for the spot of new Dark Lord. What better way to ascend to that highest position than to kill the killer of the previous title-holder? It was dangerous for him, for Ginny, for everyone associated with him or who might be near him when the attack came.

For another, they thought it better that the Wizarding World be given its saviour in thought and not flesh. Men had flaws, could let the world down. Reporters the world over would act much the same way as aspiring dark wizards; any reporter looking to make a name for himself would go digging for the sort of scandal one doesn't recover from, and why would he care if it was an invented scandal? His character and the morale of Wizarding Britain were better for his absence.

For yet another, the two of them would never have this sort of privacy again. They were very nearly the only ones in the world who knew where they were; the house was under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, the only people who had ever entered the home but they themselves were Ron and Hermione. The other Weasleys had protested this, but eventually came to accept that all family gatherings would have to be held at the Burrow. Harry and Ginny knew well that if they ever left the safety of their sanctuary, they would be subject to constant harassment at the hands of both common citizens hoping for a glimpse of the famous Harry Potter and the photographers and journalists frothing at the mouth for the front page.

Walking into it, Harry was stuck by just how like his memory of it the Great Hall was. The sky above was the same slate grey as outside, the same slate grey Harry saw all too often in the old days.

For the run-up to the ceremonies, the Great Hall served as a kind of VIP room. Standing in a corner, speaking with serious looks on their faces, were the German and French Ministers for Magic; against the opposite wall was a tall, blonde-haired man Harry recognized as the American President of Magic, looking about the room with a drink in his hand. But the group toward whom Harry and Ginny were walking were the ones at the back of the room. Standing before the Head Table were Ron and Hermione Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Bill and Fleur Weasley, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Headmistress McGonagall.

All of them having been talking, when one saw the couple of the hour approaching, they all stopped. Smiles broke across all faces but McGonagall's, though he could see a slight twitch of the corners of her mouth.

Harry and Ginny went about greeting people. He said to Kingsley Shacklebolt, extending his hand, "Hello, Minister; how are you this morning?"

"A bit worse for wear, Harry, but it's good to see you; I've been working at all hours trying to get the Wizengamot to approve the expansion of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." He smiled, "I don't suppose you would be willing to help us out with that?"

Harry gave a smile and a small laugh, "We'll talk later, Minister; after the speech. How long will you be here at Hogwarts?"

"I've been invited to eat here tonight, so if nothing comes up, I'll be here until after that."

"Excellent, we'll talk then, Minister."

Kingsley smiled and Harry turned his attention to McGonagall. A decade as Headmistress had aged her thirty years. Perhaps it was the stress of the day, but she looked ill. He greeted her and they talked for a moment before Harry turned his attention to the Weasleys.

"Arthur," he said, shaking the man's hand, "how are you?" A few years ago, Mr. Weasley had insisted that Harry call him Arthur; there were too many Mr. Weasleys about for the term to have any sort of particular man attached to it.

"I am perfectly well, Harry; I found a rubber duck in a Muggle market the other day. I'm three short of a flock now." The man smiled broadly. "Been taking care of my daughter, Harry?"

"She's been taking care of me, more like," he smiled.

"Molly will be coming along later;" he explained, "she's got the grandchildren at the moment. I'd try to avoid talking with her too much, were I you, Harry." He smiled. "She's been talking a lot lately about wanting you to make my daughter an honest woman."

Harry laughed, but took note; there was no point in having a conversation like that with Molly Weasley.

"She mentioned just last night that she thinks you're a good enough young man that you haven't..." Mr. Weasley's voice trailed off. "That you haven't made her a, erm, _dis_honest woman."

Harry smiled. "In ten years in a little house no one knows about, with no-one but her for company and very little contact with the outside world? No, no, of course not, sir."

Mr. Weasley smiled and gave a knowing nod. "Molly will be very happy."

Harry smiled, then turned his attention to Bill and a modestly pregnant Fleur. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, Harry congratulated them on their pregnancy, and asked how they would be celebrating their eldest daughter's ninth birthday, which was that day. Bill explained that they had held a party for her the day before. She would be coming along with Molly and her other grandchildren later on, but before the speech.

Harry gave a hug to Hermione and pecked her cheek in greeting.

"Did you see how many people are _out there_, Harry?" she asked, clearly nervous. Perhaps, even, more nervous than he was. "The Ministry said they didn't expect more than ten thousand the entire day. There were twenty thousand out there an hour ago!"

Harry smiled and laughed. "That number's gone up. I'd guess close thirty-thousand when I came in here."

"But Harry—thirty thousand people? _In Hogwarts_? The speech isn't for three hours! What will the numbers be then? Hogwarts isn't a sports arena, Harry!"

"It'll be fine, Hermione!" Harry laughed. "There are only thirty thousand witches and wizards in all of Britain, only two hundred thousand in all of Europe, only one million worldwide. We won't get much more than another few thousand people here."

"But Harry — I don't care about Hogwarts' capacity, it will take care of itself, but Harry you're going to be speaking to _thirty thousand people!_"

He paled a little. "Oh. Well, yes." He hadn't _actually_ thought of that. Thirty thousand people was quite a lot. A decade ago, the single thought on his mind would have been that he would mess up the speech. But now he was more concerned. Exactly what was everyone expecting? They knew, didn't they, that this was primarily a memorial service; the celebrations for ten years' peace was not to be held here. This was primarily a solemn day.

"There are thirty thousand people here, Harry, and they've all come to see you. Every last one."

He swallowed. "Thanks, Hermione."

Three hours later, with noon rapidly approaching, an unofficial count from the British Ministry of Magic had attendance hovering just over thirty-two thousand. The ceremonies would begin soon. The unexpected numbers had forced a change of venue, to the Quidditch pitch. It had been intended that the speakers would address the crowd from a platform erected on the grounds, near Dumbledore's tomb. With help from the WWN, who were already on hand to broadcast the festivities, special magical loudspeakers were set up in various parts of the Hogwarts grounds, as it very quickly became apparent that thirty-one thousand people would not fit in the Quidditch stadium alone.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was to present the ceremony that day. There had been some speculation in the press that the Minister was less than overjoyed to be introducing Harry, that the Minister had begun to resent the saviour since the extraordinarily popular Potter for Minister campaign, false though it had been, and that being less than the main attraction for the day did not sit well with him.

Despite these rumours, all said to descend from 'an aide to the Minister,' his preamble was very genuinely delivered and he conducted himself in a fittingly solemn and well-spoken manner. Harry watched it from a small, heavily guarded area immediately in front of the stage, along with his girlfriend, her entire family, and about thirty other dignitaries from around the world.

Because he and Ginny had disappeared shortly after his relatively campaign-less ascension, Harry had never really had an opportunity to see Kingsley speak. What he saw now did not particularly impress him. He was very still at the podium. There were no empathic gestures to his delivery; indeed, even his words themselves seemed somewhat passionless. His voice did not rise or fall, his pace was calm and unwavering. He seemed detached.

He reflected, however, that perhaps this relative stoicism was what his country needed. What want did Wizarding Britain have, at least in the immediate aftermath of the Fall, for energetic, verbally abrasive leaders? What the country had wanted then, and still wanted now, was peace, and the calm manner of Kingsley Shacklebolt certainly gave the impression that he was a man who could maintain serenity in a chaotic world.

Harry did have to grant him, however, that he certainly was able to captivate an audience; perhaps it was the solemnity of the day, but the Minister's voice was the only thing he could hear in the stadium, which was commendable, given the number of children in attendance.

"The man I am about to introduce to you now," said the Minister, "is the only reason any of us are here today; he is the only reason we breathe, the only reason I even stand. He is known by many names. As a child, he was the Boy Who Lived; at sixteen he was declared the Chosen One; at the age of seventeen, he defeated the man whose death we celebrate today to earn the title Saviour. To all here assembled, to all across the globe, to all who can hear my voice, to all who cannot, to all you living and all you dead, I give you Harry Potter."

The deafening roar that followed, that engulfed both country and continent, was something none who heard it would ever forget. To the sound of thirty-thousand shouting, screaming, cheering voices, Harry rose from his seat, giving Ginny one last squeeze of the hand, and climbed the steps to top the stage.

Crossing the stage to its centre, Harry shook Kingsley's hand, attempting to shout a crowd-drowned thanks, and took to the podium. Gripping its sides with his hands, he steeled himself and looked out into the endless sea of spectators, shouting wildly, many with their hands in the sky. With a deep breath, he silently cast the Amplification Charm and spoke to the world.

"Ten years gone..."


	3. Chapter 3: The Eternal

**A/N:** _To those interested, I am a founder of another HP FanFiction site. Please visit us at w w w . f i c c i t y . c o m and enjoy a different league of FanFiction._

**THE REPUBLIC**

**Chapter Three  
The Eternal**

The sun that rose on September the first was the same sun that had set the night before, but as it rose westward over the emerald hills, Harry sensed he would not see it the same way for many years to come. The world was changing; it was not the world he had delivered from its own evils those years ago; it was not even the world he had addressed in May. It was a world content, but whose atmosphere was infused with the electricity of change.

Hogwarts did not change. It was defiant and ancient; it did not bow to the world, but the world to it. Hogwarts had endured every war of the last thousand years, forever unyielding, forever more ancient and more powerful than any individual. It was the eternal bastion of wisdom and strength, the most fitting place for Harry to call home.

Perhaps he would see the sun again, perhaps he would see it from where he now stood; but if he did not, in that moment, that too was acceptable. It is said that before men, beauty should be scarce; he cannot love what he knows too well. But it was this rising sun over the emerald hills that he thought he would miss most; in him familiarity had bred not contempt, but a sense of peace, of calm and stability.

His life had been marred by inexistence, turbulence, fame, notoriety, and worship, but the sun always rose and always set, the stars always dotted the sky, the moon waxed, the moon waned. The sun would not leave; the stars would not fade; the moon would not fall to the sea. Celestial things were eternal, firm in opposition to the ways of the earth they illuminated.

Breathing in the pre-dawn summer air, Harry gave the rising sun a last look and smile. He then turned slowly, seeing his shadow upon the grass that kept him from his home. He smiled a fond smile and stepped forward, watching his shadow mirror his movement; after a few moments, he resisted his vain temptation and looked up to the house he had lived in for ten years, and at the woman who stood in its doorway, a smile on her face, her hands on her hips.

"Fond, but not in love?" he quoting, smiling, and growing closer.

"Do you feel old yet?" she followed as he reached her.

Touching his hands to her hips, Harry leant forward and placed his lips to hers, pulled back, and smiled. "Not yet."

The sun rose fully then, golden and glorious against the emerald green slopes that shielded the sun from its light.

"Do you think we'll ever see that again?" Ginny asked, staring at the golden orb in unblinking rebellion.

"'When the stars fall,'" he nodded, quoting again.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Isn't it too early to start writing another speech?"

"It's not a speech!" Harry said, refusing the accusation as if he had been offered poison. In the months following his _Ten Years Gone_ speech, Harry had warmed to the idea of delivering future speeches, despite vehemently denying such an intention during the rehearsal stage of the _Ten Years Gone_. Slowly, he had been writing down lines, ideas, and metaphors on a yellow Muggle notepad he kept in his robes at all times. Ginny often teased him about it; his politicization was something he felt mild embarrassment about, and Ginny took advantage of it.

"Yet?"

Harry rolled his eyes now, but, not meeting her eyes, conceded with a word, "Yet."

There was a tendency in him which made him nervous; a tendency towards megalomania, a tendency toward power-hunger. Fame had always been something he had avoided and been uncomfortable with when he was younger. His fame had always been undeserved; a fluke, a lie. But after the fall, after his disappearance, it started to form in his mind, largely on Ginny's insistence, that perhaps a degree of praise, of fame, was deserved. He suppressed it, he denied it, but the sound of the roar of the people at Hogwarts in May had felt good. What had felt so long ago like poison in his veins, a hindrance – what had felt toxic now felt classic.

Long nights had been spent considering his fame, musing alone and with Ginny; during his Hogwarts years, his fame had been a burden. But now, ten years on, he realized that there could be value in fame. Fame was power, and with power he could help people. If Hermione ever got wind of that idea, she'd chalk it up to his saving people thing. He wasn't sure she'd be wrong.

"So, Harry, when _are_ you running for Prime Minister?" Ginny asked in a teasing voice, offering up allusions to second-rate journalism. "And when were you going to let me in on it?"

If there'd been a wall within range, he might have pounded his head on it. The Daily Prophet had done what it was best at and run a story on his political aspirations, complete with quotes from those who had known him in his Hogwarts days; somehow, they even managed to get a quote out of Percy Weasley, special aide to Minister Shacklebolt.

"_My brother-in-law sic," special aide to the Minister said to reporters Thursday night, "would never run against Minister Shacklebolt; my brother-in-law sic Harry Potter helped to elect and Minister Shacklebolt and has given his support on more occasions than I care to count." Off-record, however, an anonymous high-level source in the Shacklebolt administration has revealed that a committee has been set up to address the possibility of a Potter candidacy, that the Minister himself receives daily briefs from the committee, and that Percy Weasley himself is the committee chair._

Harry had found it significant that Percy's quote had been in the same paragraph as the words of the 'anonymous high-level source.' For a while he was one of few to make the connection; but a story written by Rita Skeeter printed in the next week's _Prophet_ raised the point. The story had gained steam and become a sensation. Potter-For-Minister was alive again.

"Let's just go," Harry begged off.

Ginny smirked at him and, grabbing his hand, complied. Harry locked the door to their cottage and, giving it a last look, the two walked down the small stone pathway to their small automobile.

Harry looked at it with distaste. "Can't we just Apparate? The car takes ages!"

Ginny rolled her eyes for the sixth time that morning. "You _know_ we can't."

Apparation restrictions had been in place for a number of years, relaxed only on special occasions, one such occasion having been the tenth anniversary of the Fall. All countries involved closely monitored International Apparation. And so, Apparating from their home to Hogwarts would alert both their departed homeland and the British authorities as to their whereabouts. And while it was unlikely that anyone would come across the information and find a use for it, they guarded their privacy with paranoia. Their home was hidden by the Fidelius Charm, of course, but there was no sense in having to wade through reporters just to buy milk.

"_Fine_," Harry said impatiently, cringing prematurely at the crowds of Heathrow.

* * *

The Heathrow experience left Harry with only one clear thought: Wizards should not be allowed on airplanes. But upon arriving on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, this thought was wiped from his mind as quickly as it could have been. There were no Aurors on Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

"They must be in plainclothes," Harry said to Ginny, his thoughts upon her face. "Kingsley will have sent Aurors."

Her hand in Harry's, "It's been ten years, Harry," Ginny said delicately. "They're not afraid anymore."

"Maybe they should be," he remarked, his words bitterness-tinged.

Ginny gave smiled a weak smile, and the two ducked their heads as they quickly boarded the Hogwarts Express, wanting to avoid a scene. Dressed like Muggles, they had no hoods to raise, and so it did not come as a surprise when heads began to turn and people began to recognize them.

When they had finally made their way to their compartment, the last on the train, Harry turned his wand on the door and applied the strongest locking charm he could think of. His mind had already put the murmurs on loop.

With a heavy sigh, he fell to his seat beside Ginny. It was not yet noon, but the day had been long already and would get only longer still. He put his head back, resting it against the wall of the next compartment over, Ginny's hand in his, smiling slightly with closed eyes.

Part of him, a quiet part, found it remarkable how much and how little things had changed. Today was nothing like eleven years before; security was at maximum then, one Auror present for every twenty Hogwarts students. But before that, fifteen years ago – what was different between then and now? The faces were different, and there were far more of them, but the atmosphere had not changed. The air was charged. Excitement, anxiety, curiosity – the mainstay emotions of fifteen years past remained. Perhaps the Hogwarts Express was as eternal as its final destination.

Hours passed, the sun fell, and the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station. The screech of the applied brakes pulled Harry and Ginny from their cosomnia and into screeching reality.

Sitting up, placing his palms down upon his knees, clenching his teeth and swallowing, Harry breathed in deeply, steadying himself for what was about to happen. In under an hour, Headmistress McGonagall would introduce him as Harry Potter, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Their world had been a secure environment for ten years; for ten years, they had controlled everything but the weather. And now there they were, throwing themselves into the public fire, endlessly aware of the consequences of their actions.

"At least there's the press-ban law," Ginny said dismally.

The press-ban, which had been instituted in the late eighties, barred the press from a handful of locations, amongst them Platform Nine and Three Quarters, St. Mungo's Hospital, the residences of Muggleborns, and Hogsmeade Station. Ostensibly, the law had been created to protect the privacy of children and the incurably ill, with special emphasis for the privacy protection of Muggleborns.

Harry privately suspected that Dumbledore, whose name was attached in some way or other to nearly every piece of legislation from the mid forties through the middle of the last decade, but which was conspicuously absent from the press-ban, had been integral to the law's formation, and that he had done so as a favor to Harry himself. Dumbledore had always been hyperconscious of Harry's perceived susceptibility to negative media-influence, as Professor McGonagall had once told him in a long conversation shortly after the Fall.

Closing his eyes tightly one last time, Harry swung himself forward and to his feet. Turning to offer his hand to hers, "That ban shouldn't be legal," he said; "British politicians have talked non-stop about the freedom of the press for fifty years, but the Wizengamot passes laws like that."

"But can you imagine what the scene would be like without it?"

"I can," he opened the sliding door, let Ginny by, and, following, closed it behind him, "but the law shouldn't be based on our comforts."

"You can handle it now; but could you have at eleven?"

Picturing himself eleven and terrified, he had to concede the point. "But I was a different case. The press wouldn't have shown up, even if it was within their power, if I hadn't been The Boy Who Lived."

"But you were, Harry," Ginny reminded. "And you were not the first famous child to attend Hogwarts."

Harry looked at her with an expression born half of concession, half of chagrin. "Okay, you win; I just don't like the idea of restricting the powers of the press – it's free speech. It's supposed to be a right in this country, but it's almost completely ignored unless it's useful."

"Would you be more content with the press-ban if Dumbledore hadn't had you in mind for it?"

He shrugged, following up with a nod.

Ginny, her hand in Harry's, turned and pecked him on the cheek. "Get over it."

He smiled mirthfully and gave her hand a slight squeeze as they exited the Express and stepped on to Hogsmeade Station proper, avoiding the gaze of dumbstruck students as they passed.

The lack of Auror presence that had immediately caught their attention at Kings Cross was present also here. The familiar, protective, sometimes-stifling atmosphere that the red-draped Aurors embodied, and by whose presence these things were projected, was at once missed and not. Were anything to happen, there would be no protection from the Ministry, unless the Aurors were undercover; but there was something overbearing, choking about the presence of too many Aurors. Their presence would have felt too greatly like Britain was still in the throes of wartime protocol. To some degree, their absence was a relief.

After a few minutes of wading through the crowd, Harry and Ginny made their way to one of the Thestral-drawn carriages. They stepped up and into the carriage, sitting on one side, facing a vacant bench.

"Could you see them, the first time around?" Harry asked his.

She shook her head, his thoughts hers. "Could you?"

"No. Not until fifth year. After Cedric."

"Can they?" she asked, indicating the students.

Harry closed his eyes, took a breath, and performed a magic he had used only a handful of times in ten years. And then he nodded. "Almost all of them."

"The Muggleborns, too?"

His eyes still closed, "Largely the exception."

As they sat in their carriage, the wind howling beneath a stormy sky, Harry opened his eyes to the sound of the carriage door opening. A thin, light-haired boy looked up to see the pair of unfamiliar adults.

Seeing them, he paled and placed his left foot, resting upon the small stepping bar, back to the ground. With a small smile, he shut the carriage door and disappeared.

Ginny laughed. "Are you that intimidating?"

Harry objected. "Who says I did the intimidating? Maybe _you're_ the scary one, Miss Weasley."

Feigning offense, she swatted him on the arm, an expression of shock on her face. "Uncalled for, Mr. Potter!"

Harry smiled. "You figure we'll get much of that?"

"At first. But they'll get used to you."

"Us."

"Us."

A few moments later, just before the carriages began to climb in tandem, a young boy and girl, holding hands, entered the carriage. They broke hands so the boy could hold open the carriage door for the girl, who sat opposite Harry. The next instant, the boy was sitting opposite Ginny, his hand clasped to the girl next to him, both in a state of understated shock.

Harry gave a toothy smile, offering his hand to the girl, who shook it with a shaking arm. "My name is Harry Potter; I am your Defense professor."

Her eyes went wide. "I'm Charlotte."

Still doing his best to be cordial, Harry asked the frightened girl, "What year are you, Charlotte?"

She swallowed as Ginny gave a similar treatment to the boy opposite her. "Third."

Trying to make conversation with someone who was fighting desperately to remain mute, Harry said, "Well, I hope your second year goes better than mine did." She looked at him with curiosity, or whatever shade of curiosity could escape a thunderstruck expression. Harry ignored the shade of an expression, however. "What House are you in, Charlotte?"

"G-Gryffindor."

Harry beamed. "Excellent! I was a Gryffindor in my school days."

Charlotte smiled, her brown hair falling over her face as she ducked her head. "This is Adam!" she almost shouted, pulling the boy to her, seemingly jubilant to focus the carriage's attention on someone else. "He's a fourth year!"

Harry offered his hand. "Good to meet you, Adam."

"Professor," Adam said, swallowing and ducking his head slightly.

"What House is it for you, Adam?"

"Slytherin, sir," he offered reluctantly.

Harry beamed again, turning to Ginny. "Now how's _that_ for inter-House cooperation?"

"Forgive him;" she said to the children, rolling her eyes, "He's gone mad in his old age." She cast a glance at him lovingly.

Harry mock-glared, then turned back to Adam. "It would have been a scandal in our day – a Slytherin and a Gryffindor _together_."

No two Hogwarts students would ever again succeed so completely in imitating tomatoes.

"Oh, Harry, you're embarrassing them!" Ginny reprimanded.

"What?" he asked, flabbergasted. "I think it's great! We should have started so young."

Ginny shot him a look that made it clear she wouldn't have minded.

"Right," he responded, his own cheeks rubescent.

"Is it…" began Charlotte a moment later, her courage gathered; "Is it true, how they say you killed him, Professor?"

"Lord Voldemort?"

Charlotte nodded.

"I very much doubt it." Harry smiled slightly against the compulsion to scowl; this was going to be a common question, he knew, and he would have to grow used to addressing it. "But I don't know what it is you've been told."

"They say—"

"Who say, Charlotte?" Harry interrupted. "_The Prophet_? Your parents? Your friends?"

Charlotte just nodded.

"They all say you dueled the Dark Lord for an entire night." She swallowed, looking at him nervously. "They say you lost your right hand." She looked at him more nervously still, and nodded to his right. "They say you used the Unforgiveables and you used… people as shields. They say you killed _Him_ with the Killing Curse, and that you kept His wand."

Harry's face darkened considerably. He had managed to avoid proper accounts of that night, both in the aftermath of the Fall and the subsequent interviews he had given. His lips contorted.

"Some of it is true."

"Did you use... Are you Unforgiveable, sir?"

"Yes."

"Sir…?"

"How old are you, Charlotte?" Harry asked in a quiet voice.

"Almost thirteen, Professor."

"Did you lose anyone in the war, Charlotte?"

"I'm a… I'm…."

"A Muggleborn?"

She nodded.

"So am I," he said, giving a smile to reassure her. "For all intents and purposes." Then he turned to Ginny, with a grin. "A Slytherin and a Muggleborn! The times have changed."

Ginny smiled at him, "Yes, dear;" but flashed her eyes back to Charlotte and Harry took the hint.

The carriage began to slow.

"Charlotte," Harry asked, "what pull these carriages?"

Adam spoke instead, his voice bitter. "Thestrals."

Harry looked at him with pity in his eyes. "Can you see them, Adam? Charlotte?"

Both shook their heads. "But we all know what they are," Charlotte said. "Most of the seventh and sixth years can."

Harry paused for a moment, considering his words, wishing to express a complex and terrible thing quickly without stripping its due. "Charlotte: The older students, they can see the Thestrals. But Ginny and I? We know them."

Sitting at the Head Table, seeing the school from the other side, through a professor's eyes, was an uncomfortable experience for Harry. Britain had seen a large drop in birth rate during the war; and while it had skyrocketed since, the effects of the population boom would not be felt at Hogwarts for another two years. The sight of the nearly deserted Hall brought him back to darker days.

The last time he had been in this Hall, save for _Ten Years Gone_, had been immediately after the Fall. He could remember it exactly, down to each tiny, insignificant detail.

_Staggering across the grounds, bloodied, bruised, broken, the aftertaste of anger in the back of his mouth, the blood on his face and eyes, near-blinded, he dragged himself up sloping hills and over broken rocks, persistent but failing._

_The battle had been vicious, less, indeed, a battle than a slaughter. Lord Voldemort had been a better duelist than Harry could have known, better than Dumbledore ever made him out to be; he was more brutal, more resourceful, more graceful, more ruthless, and more powerful._

_It was a miracle he had survived._

_It was his dearest wish to fall to the earth, even the blood-soaked earth he had left; but he had trapped one thousand witches and wizards in Hogwarts' Great Hall. For their own protection, he had sealed every entrance and exit; the population of Hogwarts, his allies as well, were trapped inside, and he could not fall to blessed earth while they were._

_The enchantment that held them would undo itself in the event of his death, and there were some very clever witches and wizards in the Great Hall who would know that. Some part of him, the part that considered Ginny's feelings, was comforted by his self-assurances that those in the Hall must know he still lived._

_He could not have allowed them to come with him. Voldemort's greatest mistake in that night's duel, or perhaps his greatest victory, was bringing His Death Eaters with Him. It had allowed Harry, and Voldemort Himself, a shield that could be summoned hastily then thrown down to the ground._

_Had Harry allowed his allies to join him in the final battle, it would have been them Voldemort would have used as shields; Voldemort could have used His Death Eaters to capture his allies and hold them as hostages. And Harry wasn't sure what he would have done had Ginny been in the Dark Lord's hands._

_His left leg was bleeding badly. A bone was protruding. It was testament to the ferocity of the duel that Harry did not know how or when his leg had been so mangled; perhaps it had been one of the Blasting Curses Voldemort had cast, or perhaps a Cutting Curse, or even a Bone-Breaker Curse; it might even have been one of the few curses the Death Eaters had managed to land before he killed them._

_Finally, limping, continuing on not by physical strength, but magical crutch, Harry reached the entrance to the Great Hall. He leaned against the great door, his breathing heavy. He wiped the back of his hand against his forehead. His hand now blood-streaked, he moved back from the door, closed his eyes, and began to remove the enchantment, murmuring softly as the wards fell._

_A moment of chanting later, the seals were undone. He waved his wand to open the door and staggered into the warmth of the illuminated Hall. He was facing all one thousand who had turned at the door's sound. His legs began to give out, and someone rushed to him, shouting his name. _

_Falling, "It's done."_


	4. Chapter 4: Teen Spirit

**THE REPUBLIC**

**Chapter Four**

**Teen Spirit**

"My name is Harry Potter and I will be your Defense professor," Harry said, standing before a room of rapt-attention-paying seventh year NEWT students. "In this room, I will teach you to live and die by your own ability; I will give you the tools to defend yourselves and others, to overthrow tyrants and oppose the evils of the world.

"I will arm you with the power to move mountains and shake the earth." Harry put his hands in his pockets. "I will show you how goodness is won and evil undone," he pulled his hands out of his pockets and raised them before his chest, rotating his hands, palm up, palm down. "I will show you how great men and women have lived and died and why.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust," he said, flicking his right wrist and throwing a handful of sand which morphed itself midflight into the incorporeal image of Lord Voldemort, then shimmered out of existence into something ethereal, "and what I see when I turn out the light."

"Does anyone have any questions?"

The class was for a moment struck dumb by the theatrics before a thin boy in the back, who reminded Harry forcibly of his old Professor Snape, called out, "What happened with the Dark Lord?"

"Voldemort was the most skilled duelist I've ever seen, and I killed Him."

"But you beat Him, like you said," began a pretty, bespectacled brunette up front. "So doesn't that make you better?"

Harry waved it off, "A technicality. I was an inferior duelist to Him until the day He died. And even then, never discount the force of chance."

"But what happened with Him?"

"I killed Him, Mr. Doherty," the professor said simply, and with a smile.

"But _how_?" asked the brown-haired girl.

"Slowly."

"But are the rumors true?" she continued. "Did you…?"

"Avada Kedavra, Ms. McConnell?" The class recoiled. "Yes."

"How long did you duel?" asked the boy in the back from earlier.

"A few hours hours. Long enough, obviously, for the end-result."

The class was silent.

"You want details, but you won't get them," Harry said. "That's not what this class is about, and I won't pretend it is. I am here to teach you to defend yourselves against the evils of our world, not to tell stories better sent to the flames."

"Did you finish Hogwarts after the Fall, Professor?" asked the boy in the back, not missing a beat. "I've heard you didn't."

"No, I did not. After the Fall, after the country was beginning to stabilize under Minister Shacklebolt, Ginny and I left. I completed our education. Neither of us finished Hogwarts. Yet here I am."

"Are you qualified, then, sir, to teach us?"

"The Headmistress seemed to think I was qualified, Mr. Doherty," Harry said, dispelling him. "Hiring ultimately falls to her, and it is not for you or me to decide whom she does or does not deem qualified."

"But you never _finished_, Professor," he protested.

"No, Mr. Doherty, I did not; but that is the only true argument against my credentials. If even my track record fighting the Dark Arts is not enough for you, perhaps you will accept my professorship in light of the number of articles I have written for the various trade journals. Scholastic achievement is universally scholastic achievement, is it not?

"I have written three articles for _Transfiguration Weekly_; one on inter-species Transfiguration; one on Transfiguration in dueling; and one article on the Animagus transformation.

"I have written six articles for _Challenges in Charming_; two on the Fidelius Charm; one on stealth-related charms; one on the Protean Charm and its derivatives; and two articles on Shield Charms, one on pre-existing Shield Charms and one on Shield Charms of my own invention.

"I have written nine articles for _The British Journal of Defense_; one on each of the Unforgiveable Curses; four on psychomagical techniques and uses within the context of battlefield magic; one on dueling techniques; and one on the curses I created during the second war.

"I have won many awards for my articles," Harry continued. "Several of them have been reprinted in your textbooks; I believe Professor Malfoy's NEWT students use Loxley's _Transfiguration in the Modern Age_, in which four of my six articles for _Transfiguration Today_ have been reprinted, with notes and comments by Mr. Loxley.

"However, Mr. Doherty, if you feel I am unqualified for my position, you are free and encouraged to lodge a complaint with either the Headmistress or the Board of Governors."

The class, which had spent the last several minutes in silence watching their professor tear into a doubting student, burst into laughter at Harry's conclusion. The entire class, save, of course, Mr. Doherty. Even the Slytherins he had come in with – a short boy with red hair and a tall, pretty girl with black hair – had turned to laugh at their comrade.

"However, Mr. Doherty," Harry said, interrupting the eruption, "I admire your courage in questioning authority; if we had had more people like you around when Fudge was Minister, maybe the second war could have been avoided," Harry said. "And so, Mr. Doherty, twenty points to Slytherin for your tenacity."

"Sir," began the McConnell, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but notice; you have written for all of the main journals but _The Practical Potioneer_."

"That is true."

"Why haven't you, sir?" she asked, but was not finished, her eyes glistening with a clever question. "Draco Malfoy was editor-in-chief before you got him his job here; was your old rivalry to blame for your lack of articles in the _Potioneer_?"

"No, Ms. McConnell," he said with a smile, "Professor Malfoy is not to blame; I have not written anything for _The Practical Potioneer_ because I am an astonishingly incompetent potion-maker; it's nearly killed me more times than I care to think, actually; I am truly awful."

Harry smiled wryly. "As for your characterization of the relationship I had with Draco Malfoy as a rivalry, I must disagree; Draco Malfoy was not my rival, he was my enemy. Ours was not a competition, or was not, at least, since the earliest of my Hogwarts years."

"But Professor," countered McConnell lost in his eyes, "why, then, did you endorse him as a professor here?"

"Because he was the best person for the Defense job;" Harry said simply, sticking to the old line, "his past had uniquely positioned him for this position, and I believed he could bring a perspective to the job that no one had since Severus Snape years earlier."

"The perspective of a Death Eater?"

"Yes, Ms. McConnell; the perspective of a Death Eater. But," Harry continued, "as I said, he was the best person for the job."

"Was, sir?"

"Well, Ms. McConnell, I'm here now," he said with a grin to her blush. "Now! Any more questions, or can we get to the business of Defense now?"

"Sir?" asked a girl in the back.

"Yes, Ms. Grant?"

"Do you know _all_ of our names?"

"If I need to," he said vaguely.

"Does the word Legilimency mean anything to you, sir?"

"What House are you in, Ms. Grant?"

"Ravenclaw, sir."

"You would be," he said, smiling. "Thirty-five points to Ravenclaw for Ms. Grant's shrewdness, and for bringing us to our first assignment for the year."

The class groaned.

"Mr. Doherty: You asked what happened with Lord Voldemort. Ms. McConnell: You asked how I did it. I answered truthfully; I killed Him with the Killing Curse. But I defeated Him with Legilimency."

Suddenly, the class didn't seem to dread their homework quite as much.

"Sir, what _is_ Leg…. Legilimiticy?" asked Ms. McConnell.

"Legilimency, Kathryn McConnell, is how I know your name. But I suspect you seek a slightly more clinical definition." He smiled. "Ms. Grant?"

She reddened and cleared her throat. "It – Legilimency – is sort of like, well…. Muggles have this concept called mind-reading; it's an example of their made-up sort of magic, but that's more or less what Legilimency is: mind-reading. It lets the Legilimens – that is, the person performing Legilimency – pick up on thoughts and memories of the person they are using Legilimency on."

"I _know_ what mind-reading is, Sandra," bit Kathryn McConnell, scandalized. It took only seconds for her to realize, however, that her professor had access to her thoughts. And when she realized it, her eyes grew wide.

"You're in our heads? You can read our thoughts?"

"Not as such, no," Harry quelled. "Though I certainly am able to access every thought in every head in this school, I use it very sparingly. However, one of the side-effects of the 'Last Battle,' as the media likes to call it, is that the surface thoughts of non-Occlumens come to me unbidden. For me, it takes a concerted effort to completely cease my use of Legilimency.

"But don't worry; the most I can pick up passively are little things like your name. People are so tied to their identities these days that you all wear your names like badges. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing, or just a thing, but I despair for the future of collectivism if individual distinction and nomenclature are so important to you."

The class seemed largely disturbed by the idea of a teacher in their heads. And it showed on their faces. Because something had to, and Harry's individualism rant certainly couldn't.

"Honestly – don't worry about it. If I were to lose myself, you would have much more to worry about than me finding out what you did last summer."

For reasons he wouldn't fathom, that didn't seem to comfort them either.

"Well, on to the good news, then!" He smiled. "The first thing we're doing this year is teaching you some degree of proficiency in Occlumency, which is Legilimency's opposite; if Legilimency is offensive, Occlumency is defensive.

"Even the most basic Occlumency shield will enable you to block out my passive Legilimency. You just have to have _something_ in place to keep me out, and then I'll have to will myself into your heads to actually get anywhere."

Still nothing. He promised them mental security; but the trade-off was learning an obscure branch of magic with an obscure and intimidating name.

He sighed. "All right; twenty points the first person to smile."

And it worked; the entire class forced obscene, mirthless smiles onto their faces, like mad clowns.

"Slytherin again," he said, then addressed the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs: "You've got some catching up to do."

"Sir?" voiced Kathryn McConnell. "Will we be learning Legilimentsy ourselves, or just Occlumency?"

Harry smiled again. "It's le-gi-li-men-cy, Ms. McConnell. But to answer your question: I will only teach you Occlumency. Legilimency is a very powerful, potentially very volatile magic; it is the one lethal art I will not teach you, and I think over time you will come to understand why."

The boy in the back, Stephen Doherty, saw fit to turn the discussion back on his new professor. "Why didn't you come back to Hogwarts, Professor, after the Fall?"

"Oh, let's not get into that," he returned.

"It's a legitimate question, sir," countered Kathryn McConnell, looking at him with lust and longing, trying to impress him by forcing him into a situation, counterintuition working on overdrive. "You are the teacher of a very important subject in our NEWT year, but you never finished Hogwarts yourself. We have a right, if not solid a foundation, sir, to be concerned. I mean, Professor, you didn't come back."

"I didn't, no," Harry said with a very deep breath. "All right; full disclosure. I'll address it fully, but after this, we're done with this line of questioning. Agreed?"

The class gave silent consent.

"After the Fall," he began slowly, then paused. " After the Fall, I couldn't face things any more. I didn't have it in me to come back to school, to be the student of people who would call me their savior, I couldn't sit in a class with my peers thanking me, prodding me, worshipping me, declaring me god."

He sighed. "The idea – the _idea_ – of being looked at with _gratitude_ by people who were supposed to be equals, superiors, was too much; it was painful to consider in serious terms.

"And to be perfectly honest, after I went through what I went through, it seemed silly to come back to Hogwarts and sit in class reading about things I had already experienced. Defense Against the Dark Arts in theory is not what it is in reality. And everyone who might have had a thing or two to teach me about fighting the Dark Arts was dead.

"The idea of sitting in a class and being excited about anything was just too _foreign_ to me at that point. It didn't make sense to come back to that atmosphere of false constructs and false enthusiasm, not after what I'd seen. Not after what I'd _done_.

"And so, when it looked like Minister Shacklebolt was going to be able to take care of things, Ginny and I disappeared, breaking quite a few laws in the process, actually. If the Ministry wanted to, they could, I suppose, charge me with kidnapping, and…" Harry trailed off, beginning to blush. "Well, quite a number of things."

Most of the class snickered, with a few boys in the back of the class cheering, to Harry's immediate and immortal mortification, but Kathryn McConnell looked like she'd just been kicked in the teeth.

"So no, I didn't come back to Hogwarts as a student. Headmistress McGonagall did offer me this position, though, the day after the Fall. I turned it down. Which was wise, I think.

"I was on the brink of collapse, anyway," he added. "We both were."

"But Ginny Weasley was younger than all of us when you disappeared. Didn't her parents object?" asked Kathryn McConnell, envious and hopeful.

"They did, yeah," he nodded, "but we didn't present it as a question, or as something we were considering; we didn't seek their blessing. Which was another wise move, I think; her father would have given it, her mother wouldn't have, and it would have made things harder than they needed to be. By not asking permission, we avoided a split in her house; her parents could both get behind being upset at us if we left without consulting them. We told them that we were going to go away for awhile, and we thought they'd like to know."

"So you just ran away?"

"Into the sunset, yeah," he said sarcastically.

The girls all seemed overtaken by romantic fantasy; some cast sideways glances at the boys in the room, and some of the boys returned them.

"We used to talk about it, when it was just the two of us in hiding, during the second war," Harry said, for the first time that day, offering information rather than being pressed for it. "We said we'd run away when everything was done, that we'd disappear completely to never be found.

"Until the Fall, it had always been a fantasy, and we both knew it; we treated it in fantastical terms. _If_ was a big word back then; _if_ we both survived the war; _if_ the world could still be left; _if_ we were even able to disappear, _if_ the media wouldn't be so incredibly overbearing that we'd never get the opportunity….

"We used to lay under the stars at night and talk about it; the little house we'd build in some remote part of the world; not letting anyone know where we were, not a single soul; being completely free from danger; no apocalypse to keep us in check; no having to walk, to live and breathe, in silence and darkness….

"We used to dream."

The class looked at him with sympathy and longing; they felt for him, but some part of them, the part that rebelled against the largely comfortable lives they had lived, wanted the life he had for those nights under the stars.

"Where _did_ you go, Professor?" asked Kathryn. "After the Fall, I mean."

"I'd tell you that if I didn't think it would find its way back to the _Prophet_. Suffice it to say, and this might be a topic of controversy at some point – the _Prophet_ has to deal with slow news days somehow, I suppose…. Suffice it to say that we left the country."

The unspoken implication, that a national hero had in essence defected, was the wet dream of the sort of tabloid journalist which Rita Skeeter epitomized.

"Professor?" began Sandra Grant, her hand aloft a moment later. "How did you use Legilimency to defeat Voldemort? And how has it made you…."

"Unable to turn it off?" he offered to her nod. "There is a dangerous and ugly answer to that unassuming question. If you want it, I will provide it, but be warned; it was war, and I a warrior."

The class, as one, seemed to bid him speak. He nodded.

"I used Legilimency to infiltrate and overtake the minds of Voldemort's Death Eaters. I used them to attack, distract, and taunt Him. When it was convenient, I used them to block His curses, often to the expense of their lives. Before the night was over, I used them to kill each other. One lived. He is now in St. Mungo's Criminally Insane ward. His mind is scrambled. He doesn't know his own name."

What he had said, he said to immediate shock and horror.

"I told you it was through Legilimency that I defeated the Dark Lord, and that was the truth. I picked His mind apart, clawed through ancient thoughts and memories, terrorizing and torturing Him with all His past and future. I butchered his mind, annihilated his cognitive powers, tore out his ability to reason, deliberate. All I left him was the ability to feel. And he did feel, in his dying moments as he lay dying, begging for the end.

"Legilimency, properly used, is a brutal weapon. I knew that, and so I trapped my supporters in the Great Hall. If they had come along to join the fight against Voldemort, their fates would have been His and the Death Eaters'.

"I know because I've been there. Lord Voldemort did the same thing to me in my fifth year. It is a brutal magic, excruciating, and almost impossible to defend.

"The violent overthrow of so many minds and consciousnesses is what has driven me to my state of Legilimens perpetual."

The class was absolutely silent. Every face stone-white, every body stone-still. After several minutes of the class staring at Harry and Harry at the ground, Kathryn, her voice wavering, dropping in and out with her resolve, broke ranks and spoke:

"Are you Unforgiveable, sir?"

"Yes."

"Are you a murderer, sir?"

"Yes."

"Are you a war criminal, sir?"

"Yes."

"Are you repentant, sir?"

"No."

Defiance.

"I do not apologize for the things I have done. I was judge, jury, and executioner. But I do not apologize. My brutality was in place of yours. We all do terrible things to the ones we love; we all wish terrible things on the ones we hate; circumstance is what separates us.

"And I do not repent."

A chill ran through the class; even Kathryn McConnell, who had spent the class period thus far with a mix of love- and lust- struck awe in her eyes, looked at him like a sick dog. Some still felt the debt that hung around all their necks, resting on their chests beside their Legilimental name badges, but the feeling was fading fast, leaving fear in its wake.

Few had ever imagined that Harry Potter himself, the trumpeted and celebrated, the savior and saint, the hero of their generation, their nation, would ever declare that he was the things he had; fewer had ever fathomed he might declare these things and stand defiant before judgment.

"I have done terrible things for men, women, children and to them. But absolution is one thing you cannot grant me, it is one thing I cannot seek. What I have done is for me to live with. And there is no power in this world that would hold me to account for my sins.

"Reckoners: This is what I have to teach you; this is what you must learn. Protect and save yourselves and those you hold most dear. The mind is a terrible thing to lay to waste, and I am not the only one who can. You must protect yourselves, mind, body, and soul. If you will listen, I will teach you. You have lived ten years' contented existence, ten years' relative peace; but all things must pass, thus too must happiness.

"There may well come a day when you stand on the threshold of eternity and all that separates you from death is what you will learn in this room.

"You must learn Occlumency. You must learn defense. You must learn offense. You must learn the lethal arts of war and peace, of love and hate, if your generation is to survive. Tens of thousands of my generation, of my parents generation and yours, fell to a power-mad, self-aggrandizing man because those who saw His genesis, who saw what He was becoming, who saw where He was going, did nothing to stop Him, because by the time the world knew what He was, no one could.

"The rise of Lord Voldemort was as slow as His Fall and no one stood up when they could have, no one saved my generation, my parents', your parents'. Men lived and died resisting in futility because those who came before permitted a monster. They were not armed, my generation and that which preceded it immediately, they were not prepared; they did not comprehend, nor should they have been made to, the evils of gods and men.

"You will not be a mirror to their failure. You will be ready. Because I can't do it again and I won't pretend I can; I have saved this world, and never again. It's in your hands. Destiny is yours to forge; and nothing so precious as the future should be left in a man's hands.

"I could have died at any time. What would have happened then? We, your heroes, are men, and men are mortal. You cannot depend on us to save you. Be your own heroes. Defend yourselves and your country, your ones loved and hated, not just from some primal scream of self-preservation, but because it is your duty as you live and breathe to save yourselves and those around you.

"Tyrants rise because good people let them. Strike down your evils.

"Give me your eyes and I will show you how."

He looked away from his disciples and to the would-be sky. "There is evil both before and behind. I can't be held responsible for what will happen if you cannot rise above yourselves. If you cannot topple your tyrants, you leave it in the hands of those know not how to create, but to destroy. The world should not be built by those who have ruined it."

Three minutes' silence reigned. Harry looked his disciples in the eye, one by one, probing, but without the aid of Legilimency, exhorting, but silently. Finally, after silence had overstayed the welcome afforded it, the reliable Kathryn McConnell broke it.

"Sir," she began again, "I have another question."

"Go ahead," he granted, some part of him relieved, some part dwelling on past horrors.

"What happened at the First Battle of Hogwarts?" The class perked up. "There have been rumors since the day of the battle that the Ministry had covered things up. Dumbledore was found dead the next day; you and Ginny Weasley disappeared. There's a lot of… mystery, I suppose, surrounding that day. There are a lot of unanswered questions.

"I suppose what I'm asking, sir, is: what happened there?"

"I have no knowledge of the story the Ministry put out;" Harry began, "by the time Ginny and I disappeared, the cover-up hadn't been put in place, and I didn't hear about it in the time between the Fall and our departure for greener pastures. So what you will hear, if you would like, is my memory of the events unmisted by Ministerial propaganda.

"However, I must warn you all that your homework for the night is increasing with every minute we don't spend on the material. If you are willing to accept that penalty, I will tell this tale, but on your own heads."

Consent was silent and uncontested.

"Right then."

"In 1996, Lord Voldemort attacked Hogwarts with a number of Death Eaters, he—"

"Was Professor Malfoy one of them?" asked Steven Doherty from the back.

"That is not for me to say," Harry half smiled. "Professor Malfoy and I have known each other for almost twenty years; if he has not told you himself the extent of his activities as a Death Eater, then I won't either."

"Sir," began the brunette, "about the attack…."

"Right. During my sixth year, in 1996, I studied very closely with Headmaster Dumbledore. The night of the attack, the Headmaster and I had just returned from an errand abroad. We rushed in, but the Headmaster was unwell."

No one spoke.

"Professor Dumbledore and I joined the resistance already within Hogwarts — led by Headmistress McGonagall, Ginny and Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger — and tried to fight back.

"We had the Death Eaters nearly beaten when Lord Voldemort showed up," Harry continued. "He was after us, the Headmaster and me, specifically; he must have been. If usual death and destruction were his aim, he would have accomplished it," Harry mused aloud.

"At any rate, we, Headmaster Dumbledore and I, we dueled Lord Voldemort. I was very young then, younger than the youngest of you. I was weak, was foolish, Dumbledore was ill, and Voldemort was all but omnipotent.

"Professor Dumbledore ordered the disciples and staff out of the room — the Great Hall – and Voldemort ordered the Death Eaters to leave the school. The attack was aimed to draw us out. He wouldn't have banished the Death Eaters had it been anything else….

"At any rate, I don't know if any of you have ever seen a tandem duel, but between Headmaster Dumbledore and I, we were able to hold our own against Lord Voldemort for awhile."

"Professor Dumbledore _did_ die that night then, Professor Potter?" asked Kathryn.

"Yes, Ms. McConnell, he did.

"The Professor and I had grown very close since the end of my fifth year. He is as much to thank as I am that Lord Voldemort is no more; without Professor Dumbledore, I could not have defeated Him. I wouldn't have known how, and I wouldn't have had the power."

"Professor…?"

"I made a mistake when we were dueling. I exposed myself to an attack that Professor Dumbledore saved me from, to his and my expense. The curse was fatal. I charged the Dark Lord — that was the first time I used the Killing Curse — and got enough curses by to force Him to flee."

The class looked impressed, but Harry continued; he did not aim to impress.

"Professor Dumbledore died in my arms, the first person to. As he lay dying, he turned the tide. His dying words were an incantation and an exhortation to use his wand. I learned some time later what the incantation was, and I continue to use his wand to this day. As he lay dying, Professor Dumbledore transferred his power, if not his ability, to me. As much of his power as he had in him, at any rate. It was an infusion of magical power; and had the curse not killed him, the transfer would have."

The class was silent for several full minutes, sitting and staring, some considering the facts of the situation, some putting themselves in his or the Headmaster's place. When Harry did speak again, however, the classroom clung to his every breath.

"Shortly after that night, Ginny Weasley and I disappeared for the next year, working to undo what made Lord Voldemort unconquerable. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stayed at Hogwarts and helped try to maintain organized resistance. It was everyone's feeling, and we came to be proven right, that it was only a matter of time before, with Dumbledore dead, Lord Voldemort took over Hogwarts.

"When it came, in late October of that year, Ron and Hermione disappeared into Hogwarts and spent the next six months with the Invisibles; they were the heads of their operations within Hogwarts, raiding Voldemort's people within the castle and keeping disciple resistance and disobedience up."

"I'm sorry, sir," interrupted a boy in the front with blonde hair and blue eyes. "But who were the Invisibles?"

"You don't know?" asked Harry, surprised. The boy looked guilty, and he was not the only one. "Raise your hands, all of you, if you know who the Invisibles were."

None of the disciples did, to Harry's consternation.

"The Invisibles was the name of a resistance group to Voldemort's rule; not everyone saw the Ministry to be a puppet government, but many of those who did joined the Invisibles, so named for the speed of their attacks and because they attacked at times of low visibility. Until the Fall, they were the most powerful resistance force in the country.

"There was a group before them, and if you haven't heard of the Invisibles, I doubt you've heard of them either. The Order of the Phoenix was a group Dumbledore set up during the first war and which he reactivated with the start of the second. It was the premier group until Dumbledore's death, when it fractured into bits and pieces." Harry shook his head. "My parents were members the first time around, and I was an informal member until its collapse.

"After the Order fell apart, a number of successor groups formed; the Invisibles was one of them. The national leader was my parents' old friend, and my old Defense teacher, Remus Lupin; he died in Hogwarts on the day of the Fall.

"When I was a disciple here myself, in my fifth year, I formed an organization called Dumbledore's Army in response to the way the Ministry was interfering with the Defense program here at Hogwarts; nearly every single member of the DA — that was the name we come up with to be able to speak about the Army without anyone knowing…. Nearly every single member of the DA joined the Invisibles, either after or instead of Hogwarts."

The class were all leaning forwards in their chairs, elbows on the desks, awaiting his next words.

"But I think I have wasted enough time on ruminations on the past for one day." The class groaned as one. "We have a lot of work to do; Occlumency is a very difficult branch of magic, and an obscure one. So let's get to it."

"But, professor, what about—?"

"Occlumency!"

**A/N:** _Honestly, the things I do with capitalization and personal pronouns... In some countries, it's probably illegal._

_Anyway, I'd appreciate your thoughts on the chapter, if you have any. I know, I know -- it's not Phantasmatic, but that seems to have stalled lately. School's back in session, after all. So you're stuck, at least for now, with this. And another chapter of the old FDPS on Sunday. But:_

_Thoughts?_


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